


A Holiday in the Country

by gardnerhill



Series: A Fiend in Feline Form [1]
Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Christmas, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Community: watsons_woes, Geese, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basil of Baker Street must deal with a goose, a missing gem, a thief, and a case in the middle of a festive season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Holiday in the Country

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** One small moment of violence and bloodshed, off-camera.

My friend Basil of Baker Street is the only consulting detective in all of mousedom, even as his admired teacher Mr. Sherlock Holmes holds that distinction among his fellow human beings. However, unlike that worthy detective, Basil does not confine his assistance to members of his own species. I have recorded a case when Basil helped a pair of seagulls which I wrote under the title “The Egg Hunt,” and I may someday relate the electrifying tale of The Fiendish Feline, The Swiss Wolves and The Panicked Cart-Horse.

 

One such case began with a fierce pounding at the door at midday, just as Basil and I were preparing our rooms for the observation of the Animas holiday that would begin that night.

I had been in the very act of hanging a straw-tuft from our ceiling; I started, swinging my tail to keep my balance on the small stepladder, and looked toward the door. Basil had been lounging in his dressing-gown and plucking the tune of an old village air on his violin; he set down the instrument at once and sat up, interest in every line of him down to his tail-tip. “Halloa! Dawson, my boy, we are needed!” he called over the loud pounding.

 

I descended the stepladder. “Perhaps it is merely the post.”

 

My friend was upright as well, cinching his gown more securely about himself as he approached the streetside entrance to our lodgings below 221b Baker Street, from which the pounded had not ceased. “Impossible. No self-respecting post-mouse abuses a door like that, Doctor, so it cannot be a seasonal package. That incessant noise means a client, a case, work!” His voice held an eagerness that had been lacking in the leisurely days of bitter weather that ran up to the holiday. “And no member of _Rodentia_ this time, Dawson. That noise is produced by a large heavy bird bill, pecking the door.”

 

Basil opened the outer door and it smacked into something. A loud honking squawk, from no mouse nor rat, alerted us even before the shadow of a long snakelike neck loomed over us from the outside. Then a great bird’s head thrust itself through our doorway, forcing Basil to leap backward so quickly that he stumbled and sat down heavily on the carpet.

 

The visitor peered at both of us through a pair of gold pince-nez spectacles perched atop a heavy orange bill, his black shining eyes in a white-feathered head. A duck – no, too large and the bill too heavy, a goose. And no goose, but a gander. His voice held the sharp nasal quality often found in waterfowl. “Mr. Basil of Baker Street? The mouse detective?”

 

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” Basil said courteously to his client, standing to meet the large bird with his eyes as if he got bowled over by visitors all the time. “For apart from the obvious indications that you are a former Naval officer, currently hold the position of major-domo to a peer whose estate is in the nearby countryside, and are fond of taking snuff, I can deduce little about you. Your state lets me know that your charge is in a dire situation.”

 

The gander squawked once in astonishment, his neck and head feathers hackled.

 

I was nearly as startled as was our visitor; but my long association with my friend had sharpened my observational skills to take in the nautical-themed tattoo on the gentleman’s bare orange leg outside our door, the gold stick-pin, the tweed waistcoat, his accent, certain telltale stains and other indications that supported Basil’s hypotheses. The disarrayed feathers of the gander’s head and neck, as well as the undone collar atop an otherwise elegant shirt and waistcoat, were signs that he’d flapped off to see us without a proper grooming from his own servants.

 

“Your reputation is fully justified, sir,” the gander replied. “I apologise for calling upon you without a card and for disturbing your celebration on the very Feast Day of the Animals, but time is precious and I am desperate.”

 

“Believe us, sir,” I said firmly, “your appearance here is very much welcome here, on this day, as it would be on any day.”

 

Welcome? A case on Basil’s doorstep was nothing short of an Animas gift. While much of the kingdom marks this night and day as the merriest time of year – starting from its very oldest origins in the triumph of the Sun over the longest night of winter, to the far newer celebration of the Blessed Animals who witnessed a divine birth among the humans and received the gift of sentience for their service – my friend becomes irritable or morose at the seasonal lack of work (a few petty holiday-inspired thefts do not stimulate the brain). The promise of a proper case was better than any acquaintance calling upon us with a carrot pudding or bottle of wine.

 

“My friend and colleague Dr. Dawson speaks the truth,” Basil added in a tone just short of glee. “Pray continue.”

 

The gander had recovered some of his aplomb. “Very well, Mr. Basil. I am Sir Herbert Griswold, a retired lieutenant in the Royal Navy who has held my current position in the household of the Countess of Morcar for the past four years. At cockcrow today the Countess was missed from her punctual round of the estate.”

 

Basil nodded sharply once. “The Countess was in the habit of surveying her property in the morning?”

 

“Very much so, sir. Lady Morcar always says that a properly-bred goose takes care of such matters personally. Before breakfast – often before cockcrow – she makes a circuit of her yard, ensuring that all is well and that no intruders have breached her farm, nor threatened the other poultry. The Countess has personally driven away more than one wicked fox or cat from her domain. She is a large and powerful bird.” Sir Herbert’s pride in his employer was evident even in his apprehension.

 

“Was she in the habit of making her round alone?”

 

“No. Most often she is in the company of two or three of her maids. When none saw Her Ladyship this morning we headed to her nest-box. The door was open, and inside the maids were sleeping in their nests, dressed in their night-attire, and hard to awaken.” The gander’s agitation became more pronounced. “We also found a note in Lady Morcar’s empty nest, printed upon a scrap of paper. This note.” Sir Herbert’s head disappeared from the door and he searched his waistcoat, pulling out a rumpled bit of brown paper and holding it out to Basil with the very tip of his bill.

 

I looked over the note beside my partner – a large rumpled piece of thick brown paper with ragged edges, nearly as tall as my tall friend. The words it contained were also large and their ghastly threat printed with a coarse black charcoal that had smeared at the edges: NO POLICE - LEAVE BLUE CARBUNCLE AT SE-MOST FENCEPOST BY MIDNIGHT OR MERRY CHRISTMAS COUNTESS.

 

I clenched my fists. “The blackguard!” The threat could not be clearer. The humans call this feast day Christmas, and they observe it by slaughtering geese.

 

Basil’s only reaction was a twitch of his ears, but his grim tone showed that he agreed with me. “This kidnapping was not planned beforehand. This paper was clearly torn from something…” Basil sniffed it. “…not fertilizer, but somewhat rough on the unwritten side. Feel this, Dawson.”

 

I did so. It felt rough and slightly abrasive, as if the paper had been dropped in some fine sharp substance. “It feels like… sand?”

 

“Very like it. This is very interesting. This note indicates that kidnapping was not the culprit’s plan when he came to the yard.”

 

Sir Herbert clicked his bill as if he wanted to break a creature’s neck with it. “Kidnapping or theft. They want the Blue Carbuncle!”

 

Basil tapped a finger against his incisors. “I know of the gem, Sir Herbert. It is the prize of the Countess’ adornments, is it not? It must have been securely hidden away for the culprit to change his mind and choose kidnapping rather than burglary to attain it.”

 

Sir Herbert hissed. “That is the second mystery, Mr. Basil. The Countess’ Blue Carbuncle is not in her jewel-case. It is nowhere to be found!”

 

Basil lifted his head from his perusal of the note. Eagerness at this case radiated from head to tail-tip. “Missing, you say? As is the Countess? She would not be wearing it or they would have simply taken it. Two mysteries here indeed.”

 

“Yes!” The gander bobbed his head so fiercely that he nearly knocked the lintel of the door. “But how do we save the Countess if there is no way to pay the demanded ransom? The thought of her on a human’s Christmas table is unthinkable. But we have turned over the Countess’ sleeping chamber and as much of the farm as we can. We cannot find the stone. None of the other jewels even seem to be touched – the maids are prepared to swear the rest are here. We dare not go to police. But your reputation is known even among those of us who live outside London, so I knew to whom I should turn.”

 

Basil nodded sharply. “Sir Herbert, we will be ready to come with you in ten minutes. Please be prepared to return to your estate immediately.”

 

When the agitated gander had pulled his head back Basil closed the door and flew to the bedchamber. I was at my own clothes-press in as much time; I was an old hand at preparing to join my partner in his work. In addition to warm clothing – this would not be the first time I had flown over London on a bird’s back – I made sure my Army revolver was in my pocket before joining my friend in going out to our client.

 

“They are in dire straits to come to us, Dawson,” Basil said whilst pulling on his tweeds. “Poultry loathe rodents. Come,” and he was out the door without looking behind. (I followed close on his heels, of course.)

 

London is lovely when seen from the air. Or it would have been if it had not been so exceedingly cold.

 

***

 

The Countess’ estate was a small poultry farm in the southeastern area where London ends and the countryside begins, a patch of rural civilisation as seen from the air and bordered by bare-limbed apple trees. Sir Herbert landed us in the middle of the hen-yard among the Countess’ household – their distress a sad contrast to the festive wisps of straw hung over doorways, evergreen boughs, and other decorations for the season.

 

At Basil’s request Sir Herbert led us to the crime scene. Basil started to make a thorough inspection of Lady Morcar’s unlocked nest-box and disarrayed dressing-table. At one point he sniffed and then tasted a small dark patch of mud on the ground before spitting it out; when he went to the table I sniffed at that same patch, and recognised the odour of coffee at once. The lock and door to the chamber had not been picked nor forced; jewel-boxes had been emptied and tumbled about on the dressing-table, but the pearls and brooches themselves lay amid the chaos. The thief or thieves had clearly wanted only that one stone. I examined a beautiful cameo. “Is the Blue Carbuncle that much more valuable than these other pieces?”

 

“Very much so – rarer and far more infamous than any of these other baubles.” Basil looked up from the Countess’ vanity table. “Such prizes are magnets for crime. The Blue Carbuncle all on its own has been the cause of three murders, a trapping, a poisoning, and now a kidnapping.”

 

“Let it not be the cause of a fourth murder.” I looked around at a lady’s haven turned public crime scene. “Not on Animas Night.”

 

“Indeed,” the tone now came from above me. Basil had clambered up to the vent opening near the chamber’s peaked ceiling. “Hm. No sign of entry here. No new scratches; no fur, feathers or hair.”

 

I shivered, looking up at that small vent. I remembered the deadly hand-to-hand combat we’d once engaged with a deadly swamp adder who’d been devouring the mice on one country estate, so cold-bloodedly wicked she’d even bitten a human woman to death (we’d finally driven the villainess into the next room, where Sherlock Holmes was waiting with a cane to exact retribution for that poor creature). “Could it have been a snake?”

 

“None of the geese were bitten or attacked. Reptiles understand prey but not valuables. They can make powerful allies but only if they’re very tightly controlled by a higher-functioning animal. An unaccompanied snake would try to eat a goose, not search her jewelry.” Basil dropped back down and brushed off his trousers. “No, Dawson, no cousin of the unspeakable Mistress Raghavan has been here. There is nothing more to be learned inside.”

 

Unfortunately, any outside prints from the abduction were long gone – the snow and mud had been churned up by the panicked poultry indeed running about like chickens when they’d discovered their matriarch missing. Basil bit back an oath at the sight, and I pinched my eyes closed in an effort to hold in my own temper. “We will take a closer look at the surrounding countryside, afterward,” Basil said, and approached the tweed-waistcoated gander. “Sir Herbert, can you please direct me to the storage facilities on the farm?”

 

The shed to which the major-domo led us abutted the kennel, and gave me a moment of heart-pounding startlement when the brainless watch-dog bayed at us as we entered. The room was an all-purpose facility; it held farm tools and supplies, livestock necessities, and the household’s larder tucked into the back. We began with the kitchen supplies for the court, hidden from the humans’ view behind a broken old plough. Basil opened the sack of coffee and sniffed, nodding. “This is how they were drugged.” I remembered the coffee-scented mud he had tasted in the nest-box. From there we headed to the stock supplies. Basil dashed over to look at one bag and called, “Dawson, Sir Herbert, look at this!” He showed us a stack of bags against the wall near the door. One paper bag was torn and its pale contents spilled out in a little pyramid. “Touch this.”

 

I put out my paw to the greyish sandy pile and instantly recognised the texture from the ransom note. “Hen-grit.”

 

Basil held the torn top of the bag to show us that the chunk missing was the same rough shape and size of the note.

 

“Good Providence,” Sir Herbert whispered.

 

(We all held still for a moment at the voice of the farmer outside, calming the dog, and Basil resumed when he went back into the house.) “He had planned a simple robbery,” my friend explained. “He drugs the coffee, and makes his way into the nest-box when all are asleep that evening. But he can’t find the jewel, search though he might – quietly, so as not to alert outsiders. He’s about to panic. He has a change of plans. He’ll take the Countess of Morcar prisoner and demand the jewel as ransom. He needs a ransom note, but he doesn’t even have paper or pen. He heads back to the shed and tears a chunk off the nearest paper bag. His writing implement…” Basil dashed to the top of the bags, looked everywhere, and dashed back down in another direction. “Aha!” Another set of sacks holding fertilizer, and some holding charcoal chips. “No doubt for the fruit trees around the yard. He takes his tools outside and writes the note with...” Basil flew out of the shed, casting about before pouncing and holding aloft a large black splinter with a cry of triumph. “This chip! Just the width of those badly-printed letters, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Sir Herbert hackled again in surprise. “Extraordinary!”

 

Basil looked away from his find to the major-domo. “Sir Herbert, could you please assemble the staff in the yard? We’ll be there shortly.”

 

I looked at the makeshift writing items, and at the shed that was dark even in daytime. “The note also tells us something else about the kidnapper, Basil,” I said softly.

 

Basil nodded, his face grim. His voice was as low. “Yes, Dawson. He knew exactly where to go to find what he needed, in a winter-dark farmyard. And how odd that the dog did nothing. This was no stranger who did this. Let us see if we can throw some light on that aspect.”

 

I nodded, and we headed back to the feed-trough to interview the staff.

 

The goose-maids, when questioned by Basil, confirmed that they routinely took coffee with their mistress in the evening before retiring, and that they had done so the previous evening. The coffee-scented mud was proof that all of them had been drugged – no alarm raised and no sign of a struggle.

 

“Coffee in the evening?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that impair sleep?”

 

The maids honked with laughter. “Not at the Countess’ pace! She takes it all day long, and so must we to keep up with her!” one young goose explained. “We have become accustomed to taking a _demitasse_ at night as well.”

 

Basil nodded. Someone who knew the routine of the household.

 

A mature hen, introduced as Lady Morcar’s cook Hazel, was beside herself with grief and shock over the Countess’ abduction and the betrayal implied in her own kitchen supplying the coffee that someone had tainted. However, the disappearance of the Countess was not the sole reason for her agitation; her brother James had been missing for over a week before this unhappy business, she explained. He had been a minor cockerel in the yard, among the hens in the pecking order. His absence had nothing to do with this wretched business, Hazel insisted; he’d been unhappy about his treatment by the alpha cock and the hens, and had talked about going to London. Basil and I did not say anything as we took in the details of what had surfaced as our main suspect. He could have simply fled country life to seek employment in the city, as others had done before him. But another solution to James’ disappearance was equally possible, one I did not bring up to his sister: The humans on that farm observed Christmas, and geese were not the only poultry eaten at this time of year. Basil asked Hazel to describe her brother – height, weight, plumage, gait – assuring her that he would keep a sharp eye out for him when he returned to London. The rest of Hazel’s staff was also questioned, also visibly grieved; their stories matched the cook’s.

 

John, the alpha cock, snapped that he’d been asleep the night before until his duty to crow the farm awake, and had had nothing to do with any disappearance – not the Countess, the jewel, nor James. “None of them interest me, mouse. That miserable chicken was no threat to me or my yard; one good peck would put him in his place. As for the Countess, I gave her all the respect and honour she was due as our guardian. And I wear all the adornments I desire.” He spread his wings and fluffed up his variegated plumage of red and orange and metallic green, shaking his head to show off his scarlet comb and wattles. “Now let me go back to my duties, vermin.”

 

“Calm yourself, Dawson,” Basil murmured when I rose to confront the braggart strutting away from us, my temper high at this insult. “John is the rule rather than the exception; poultry only know rodents as thieves of their feed and eggs.”

 

“Bumpkin,” I harrumphed, reseating myself.

 

“An unpleasant fellow but he does not strike me as criminal. A lady’s life, Dawson; remember that.”

 

The rest of the household provided little more light on the subject, and Basil thanked them as he stood. “I beg that all of you please remain in the yard or your houses while I explore the area around the farm more thoroughly, so that the crime scene will be untouched. If you could all also please leave a sample of your writing here, I would appreciate it. When you are needed, you will know.”

 

“Your thoughts likely mirror mine, Dawson,” Basil said as we left the grumbling geese and hens (“Odd little chap that, what?” said a turkey, peering at us from his monocle) and walked across the henyard to the nest-box once again.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    

I nodded. “No great mystery. The only reason they do not automatically blame James is very likely sentiment.”

 

“It’s not only that. From Hazel’s description of her brother, James was a young and scrawny cockerel who got pecked about a good deal by hens as well as by John – not someone whom they could imagine carrying off a large fierce goose, even drugged. His description and that note certainly do not strike me as those of one who is good at planning such things.” From the doorway of the Countess’ chamber Basil consulted his compass. “This way, Dawson – and stoop as you walk. You need not go on all fours, but crouch as if you were.” He bowed over to show what he meant, and made a beeline for the fence, heading toward one post that stood at a corner.

 

I followed behind, stooped over. Basil would explain. “Hazel said he’d been away for a week. Was she lying? Was he lying low?”

 

“I think James did indeed set out for London. But something – or someone – may have persuaded him to return.” Basil scrambled into the churned-up mud and snow of the field beyond the corner fencepost (I recalled Basil’s compass and the ransom-note specifying the southeastern-most post). “Young males of every species can be turned toward anti-social and dangerous behavior by the right influence, especially if they are flattered or convinced it will increase their status. It could be that someone else has had their eye on that gem and saw an opportunity. If so, they could have provided him with the drug for the evening coffee.”

 

That was entirely believable. “Possibly he was promised a portion of the reward money or the proceeds from fencing the gem.” I huffed a little, keeping up with my friend over the hummocks and into the valleys of the winter field, collecting more snow and mud than I’d planned due to my crouched travel; my only consolation was that Basil was muddying his own tweeds as much.

 

“Which would also explain why he didn’t take any of the less-valuable pieces, if he was under orders. A youngster acting on greed could have filled his pockets with the other jewelry. Ah!” Basil pounced on something in a deep hummock amid the sticks and snow-patched grasses, and re-emerged. He was holding a scraggly metallic-green feather. “Voila.”

 

I looked at the small plume, no match for the bold adornments on the arrogant alpha-cock John. Basil held the feather up and sniffed it, nodded, and held it out for me; when I sniffed I recognised the floral perfume we’d smelled in the nest-box. “Brilliant! But how did you know to come this way? The ground is too broken for footprints.”

 

Basil had smiled at the praise. Now he stood a little apart from me. “What do you see on either side, Doctor? No, don’t stand up, look.”

 

I looked to my left and right. More churned-up snow and mud, high ridges and deep valleys. And, almost lost in the wild mess, two deep even grooves, one on either side of us, of a distance that suggested... “A sled or sledge from the farm.” So that was how a scrawny cockerel took away a heavy goose. And now that I was looking for them, I could see the parallel lines cutting through the chaos of the field – a track most passers-by would assume were made by the human children playing on a sled or the farmer towing fence-repair tools. “We should get Sir Herbert and the other geese.”

 

“No. Not yet. He is very likely watching the farm from the edge of the woods. The noise and commotion of a rescue party could panic our amateur kidnapper into killing his charge.” Basil faced the furrows and took off across the churned-up field, hunched over. “But if he looks our way? All he’s going to see are a pair of field-mice gleaning the field, no threat that he’d recognise. Come, Dawson.” And there was the mud and my aching back explained.

 

I followed him, scrabbling over hillocks and sliding into rows, keeping between the sled-runners that slewed this way and that over the winter field and led toward a thicket at the edge of the wood. “Our next line of inquiry,” I huffed, sliding after Basil and mourning the fresh mud-stains on my trousers, “must be about the identity of this silent partner you suspect. Could it be a fox or a band of stoats or the like?”

 

“Not a fox, there’s no fox-stink near the yard.” Basil scrabbled over the field like a ship in a rough sea. “And James would have to be an especially stupid bird to fall in with such notorious avivores. It’s more likely he’d fall prey to someone more subtle, outwardly-friendly. But there are other animals. As our friend John so ably demonstrated, James wouldn’t trust a would-be Ratigan either. Reptiles are out for the reasons I’ve already given. There doesn’t seem to be another local member of the poultry population to raise suspicion, and they won’t have anything to do with wild birds.”

I shuddered (and not just from the cold patch of snow in the current furrow). “You’re thinking of cats, aren’t you?”

 

Basil’s voice was absently focused, peering over a hillock toward the approaching woods. “One. Cat. This crime _feels_ as if it bears his paw-print.” He absently ran his fingers along the scrawny feather he still held. “Cats can be warm and affectionate with each other and their humans, and the cleverer ones know how to lure prey by pretending the same affection. They’re intelligent, subtle, and ruthless. The Countess and her court would drive off any cat they saw, so he would stay in the shadows and use a familiar member of the hen-yard as a very literal catspaw to fetch out his prize. If the cat I suspect is part of this, he isn’t even here – he would have sent one of his agents to do this work.”

 

The thought made me shudder again. Ratigan had been foul enough, and he’d merely been a rat whose obsession with mice as the ruling class of Rodentia had guided every one of his notorious crimes and his own self-loathing; most rats, such as Jennie Tilson and the rest of her chums and littermates that formed Basil’s eyes and ears on the streets of London, were perfectly decent fellow rodents. But the most innocuous cat was still a deadly creature to mice – let alone one who was a criminal mastermind. And here we were headed toward the likely hiding-place of such a creature, armed only with my Royal Mousedom Army revolver. “Basil, I’d hate for us to wind up as someone else’s Animas feast over this business.”

 

Basil airily waved one paw in my direction without looking away from his destination. “Oh, a bit of adventure is good for the spirit, Dawson. We’re almost there – this way, old mouse!”

 

We scampered like brainless owl-fodder off to one side then the other, and dashed into the thicket. I panted from the exertion, thoroughly warmed by the brisk jaunt over the field and aching from the contortions.

 

“Sh. Open-mouthed panting my boy, it’ll be quieter. Listen.”

 

I obliged. We heard the small rustles of creatures in the thick undergrowth – squirrels, voles, hedgehogs – going about their wild-animal business and wishing each other health and happiness on the festive day. But some of them also warned each other to stay away from the crazy fellow from the farm – the one in the clearing over there.

 

“Excellent,” Basil mouthed almost soundlessly, and gestured to me. I nodded grimly and took my revolver out as I followed him.

 

“Ere now! You needn’t be in sooch a hurry!” one dormouse said as we passed his hole festooned with a straw-tuft over the entrance. “Coom in an’ have a dram o’ cheer for the day’s sake!”

 

“Business, good sir,” Basil said tersely and dashed past.

 

“Afraid so. Happy Animas to you and your family,” I added in passing, not without reluctance. (I heard his disgusted “Peh! City foolk,” as he went back inside.)

 

Our quarry was not hard to spot – not when we espied the broken thicket-twigs and branches with the snow knocked off them to show where the sledge had passed through. We simply passed through the small broken spot in the underbrush.

 

And there they both were.

 

The Countess of Morcar was an immense white bird who looked imposing even bound and gagged as she was (red cord held her wings and legs and long snaky neck to her body, enwrapping her bill at the same time); she was still lying on what was indeed the farm’s tool sledge, glaring at her opponent.

 

And the cockerel James could not have been more clearly culpable if he’d been wearing a sign. The small thin rooster wore a tweed waistcoat but he shivered in the cold, having no other warm clothing about him save a small knit cap; he stepped around the sledge with nervous hops in a feeble imitation of John’s lordly strut; his head jerked around on his long thin neck, eyes staring everywhere – the look of a creature incapable of dissembling caught up in the terror and guilt of his first foray into real crime. His appearance would have been comical if he wasn’t so clearly on the knife-edge of doing something very stupid and dangerous in his panic.

 

Basil whispered. “He’s waiting for his silent partner to show up, I’m sure of it. Dawson, get ready.”

 

“For what?” I started to whisper back, but Basil had already seized two thicket branches and shook them as hard as he could.

 

James spun around, two or three feathers flying off him. “Who’s that!” he cried in a high-pitched voice, and gulped. “Who’s that? Keep away! I’m armed!” he straightened and ruffled every feather he had, trying to look fierce. “One more step and I’ll –”

 

Basil leaped out of the brush into the clearing beside the sledge. “You’ll what?”

 

James shrieked and hopped in the air a little at the sudden movement – the exact opposite of an intimidating display. It was clear that every nerve he owned was tight as a violin string. But he righted himself and gaped at my partner who’d made such a dramatic entrance. His talk about being armed was clearly a lie.

 

Basil stood straight and fixed the cockerel with a contemptuous look. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Basil of Baker Street?”

 

James’ neck feathers ruffled. He had heard of Basil. “A mouse?” His voice rose to a high-pitched shriek. “A _mouse_? I’m supposed to be frightened of a stupid little _mouse_?”

 

The staring look in the cockerel’s eyes terrified me. James had been bullied and pecked by the bigger stronger birds in the hen-yard, and he was now fully prepared to unleash his own fury on a smaller, weaker target. All that powder-keg needed was …

 

“You should be frightened of me,” Basil said with a sneer. “You miserable little _birdie_.”

 

…a match.

 

With a shriek of hysterical rage (that would have been a full-bodied war-crow in John or any other alpha male), James leaped in the air and tried to stomp down on Basil.

 

Basil dashed past. “Dawson!” he shouted across the clearing, snatching up a twig to do what damage he could.

 

I knew what he wanted, and ran to the sledge. Out came not my revolver but my pocket-knife to free the Countess – from what I could now see clearly was red wool yarn binding her. I held up the blade and met the Countess’ enraged eyes with my own. “We’re here to help you, Your Ladyship!” I called over the shrieking and stomping sounds coming from her captor. I set to work on the frayed cords that bound her bill closed – and tried very hard not to think of how easily she could break my spine with one snap of that bill.

 

James hopped up and down, wings flapping, trying to squash my friend.

 

The last yarn-thread snapped and that powerful orange bill was freed. “That chicken will RUE this day.” The Countess’ voice was cold and level, even at a whisper. “My neck.”

 

I cut here and there, sawing through the tough wool that fell into kinked bits of cut yarn as I worked – ah, our makeshift kidnapper had unraveled some piece of knitwork he’d been wearing, a scarf or jumper, to get the red cord. At last Lady Morcar’s neck was freed from its confines as well. She extended like a white snake about to strike and opened her bill. I leaped off the sledge covering my ears just as a honking blasted out of her that would have deafened me if I’d stayed, a sound that would easily carry across the field to the farm, and which explained her ability to protect her yard from outside intruders even better than could the poor dumb watch-dog.

 

James cried out again, this time in despair as his secrecy was destroyed. Basil took the opportunity to land a crack across one bony foreleg with his twig and then ran directly to the sledge, dashing underneath it to join me. James, proving he was not only guided solely by his temper at the moment but was also one of the stupidest criminals we’d ever faced, ran _toward_ Basil, shrieking in rage.

 

Right into range of the Countess’ freed neck and serrated heavy bill.

 

Basil and I, under the sledge, did not see what happened, but we _heard_ that one hard, solid peck thud into flesh and bone. James screamed in pain and staggered back. Now we could see him again, and the blood streaming down from where his left eye used to be.

 

“Mouse!” Lady Morcar shouted as if at a stupid servant. Of course, her body was still bound. I scrambled back onto the sledge, picked up the knife I’d dropped, and freed her body and legs from the rest of the wool – trying to ignore the agonized screams of the half-blinded cockerel staggering in the clearing. When Morcar was freed she stood, extended her great white wings in a mighty stretch, and swung one down in a blow that sent the wounded James sprawling into the dirty snow before her.

 

Basil scrambled up to join me on the sledge, still huffing for breath after his fight. His tweeds were torn and he was covered with that same muddy snow but he seemed otherwise unhurt. We witnessed this ghastly avian retribution in silence.

 

The Countess’ voice was colder than the snow. “James. Traitor to my household. I ought to drag you back by your tail and drop you into the kennel for the dog’s Animas feast.”

 

“No, no no no Your Ladyship, please,” James blubbered, thrashing his bloodied head back and forth in the snow as if trying to stop the pain. “No no no, think of my sister, my mother! I’ve never done anything like this before! I had to! I had to!” he wailed. “Let me go, let me go! I’ll go away and never come back! Please! Please!”

 

Basil glared at the groveling cockerel with disgust. “Look at it, Dawson. Shrimp have bigger backbones.”

 

“Do be quiet, mouse,” the Countess snapped without looking at Basil. “I don’t need your aid to discipline my household.”

 

Basil shut up, every hair bristling with pique. I was forced to hide my mirth at seeing my often-arrogant friend silenced by a client; it was truly an Animas miracle.

 

A tumult of flapping and shouting and honking grew louder and turned into an explosion of white feathers and orange feet and bills as Sir Herbert and the other geese of the court arrived outside the hedgerow and made their way in through the broken path. “Lady Morcar!” Sir Herbert honked, bobbing his head. “Thank divine Providence that you are found and well!” The geese bobbed heads as well as the gander; two of the maids hurried to their mistress’ side to start grooming her ruffled feathers back into place. “We feared for your life when we found the ransom note!”

 

“No threat from without but a traitor within, Sir Herbert.” Lady Morcar arched her neck and bared her breast to let one maid re-settle the plumage that had gotten mussed by her captivity. “When we return to the yard, bring Hazel to me for questioning. She must have let James go into the kitchen. Or she may have tampered with my coffee herself to aid her brother.”

 

“No no no not my sister!” squealed the broken heap of feathers before her. “She didn’t help me it was just me, just me I swear Your Ladyship! I give you my word she had nothing to do with this!”

 

“And how good your word must be,” the Countess said with a sneer. “What a topsy-turvy day this Animas Eve has been, with poultry stealing from me and mice rescuing me.” Basil and I bobbed our heads at the curt acknowledgement; this was probably as close as she would come to thanking us.

 

The maids hissed at James, extending their wings in a feathery cage around him. “Say the word, Lady Morcar, and we pluck him bare before beating him to death,” one said without looking away from her quarry.

 

“Your Ladyship, I have some questions to put to your captive before you bring him to justice,” Basil said immediately. “I need to know with whom he was working, and how he obtained the drug he put in your evening coffee. I believe he could not have performed this crime alone.”

 

“I am listening, mouse.” The Countess did not look away from James.

 

“As you have experienced for yourself, James did not think this plan through. He is –” Basil looked at the grim gaggle that surrounded the prisoner, “he was – a hot-headed and slow-witted cockerel. If he’d only been interested in whatever money he could get from stealing your jewels and selling them in London for his own use, couldn’t he have helped himself to some of your far less notorious pieces when he could not find the Blue Carbuncle? But he changed plans from robbery to the far more difficult and complicated route of kidnapping because he wanted only that one missing stone, and tried to use you as leverage to obtain it.”

 

Basil hopped down from the sledge and stood before the cockerel, his voice cold. “Well, James? Who persuaded you to turn around and come back here to take the Blue Carbuncle? Who gave you the drug?”

 

“Nobody,” the pile of feathers whimpered. “Nobody. It was me. It was me. I was halfway to London and I needed money. I remembered that jewel. I knew it was valuable. I’d get the most money for that one, more than all the rest put together. I got a sleeping draught from a chemist, and mixed it with a small bag of coffee. When I came back here, I stole into the supply room and poured that coffee over the top layer of the open bag.”

 

“Because you knew the Countess’ routine for taking coffee with her maids in the evening. You knew your sister would come and get the measure of coffee for the evening pot from that open bag. The storage room is near the kennel, and because the dog knew you he did not bark a warning. And while everyone was in drugged sleep you’d have enough time to look for the jewel and then let yourself out.” Basil was ramrod-straight, his fists clenched at his side, as he’d been whilst Ratigan had taunted him. He was visibly controlling great anger – but now it wasn’t directed at James. He’d thought he had a thread leading to this mastermind he was pursuing, but it had turned out to be merely a crime of petty stupid greed.

 

“Only it wasn’t there!” James bawled, shaking with sobs of self-pity. “It was gone! And I had to do something, I had to have that stone! I’d make them give it to me!”

 

“Of course you couldn’t find it.” Morcar’s icy voice sent a tremor down _my_ spine, and I’d helped rescue her.

 

Basil smiled and faced the goose, his anger replaced with grim humour. “Lady Morcar, your courage and level-headedness are admirable. When did you realise that your coffee was drugged?”

 

“When little Antoinette fell fast asleep so quickly her coffee spilt, even as I felt the urge to sleep. My maids went down first as they’re not as large as I. I knew we’d been ambushed, and my first thought was thieves.”

 

Basil’s smile was less grim now. “And that’s when you swallowed the gem to keep it safe.”

 

Morcar tossed her head. “My other pieces can be replaced. Not the Carbuncle.”

 

“That was _brilliant_ , Your Ladyship,” I couldn’t help responding.

 

“Of course it was.” But the Countess gave me a kinder look than before.

 

“And dangerous,” Basil added, not without admiration.

 

A cry of despair rose up from James. “You swallowed it? You’d had it in your crop the whole time I had you here?” Something in that weakling’s voice made me shiver at just how tragic this day could have gone, if that desperate, dangerous youngster had suspected that his prize lay in his captive’s stomach. There were other farm tools in that shed – scythes, a hatchet, pruning knives – that had been at his disposal.

 

Lady Morcar hackled her neck feathers in amusement. “You really are a stupid and terrible creature, aren’t you, chicken? Yes, it’s still there, and will remain there until I can attain a moment’s privacy in my rooms to disgorge.” The maids and Sir Herbert hissed in startlement at that indelicate reference.

 

James just lay on the ground and cried – which had to hurt his ruined eye-socket.

 

“Now do we pluck him, Your Ladyship?” another one of the watch-geese hissed.

 

The Countess of Morcar stood to her full height, her vast wingspan open and her neck arched, in a mighty stretch that demonstrated her size, before resettling herself. She faced her retinue, sparing not even a contemptuous look at her former captor. “No. No plucking, and no killing. Are we humans, to observe this day in depluming and killing poultry? Animas Eve is a time for charity, and opening one’s doors to neighbor and stranger alike. Sometimes, that open door is to let someone loose. Stand away from the cockerel, all of you.”

 

After a small pause, the grumbling geese backed away.

 

James lifted his head. His one eye stared in disbelief at the goose in the darkening woods (it would soon be pitch-black).

 

Morcar looked toward her farm, not looking at James even now. “Go, chicken. Leave this area and never come back. Your crime has cost you an eye. Let that be your punishment, and possibly a reminder to see more clearly. If any of us find you near this farm again you are fox-food. Now leave.”

 

James struggled to his feet. “Oh bless y–”

 

Morcar hissed and extended her wings, looking directly at the cockerel – and for that moment looking very like a human depiction of an avenging angel. “One more word and you are plucked. Go.”

 

James turned and stumble-staggered into the ever-darkening woods, in the direction away from the farm. All of us watched until we could no longer see, hear or smell him as he crashed through the undergrowth.

 

Sir Herbert hissed very quietly after the retreating cockerel.

 

“No, Sir Herbert.” And the Countess shook her plumes into place with a jaunty tilt to her head. “Tonight is for feasting and merriment, not executions. The straw is hung, the lost are found, the wicked are vanquished. I have a celebration over which to preside, even as the farmer and his family do the same in the house. I will ask you, however, to confine your message to Hazel to the news that her brother has indeed set out for London; no more will be said of this matter until after the holiday.” She turned to look directly at us. “No doubt you wish to return to your own observation of the day, Mr. Basil of Baker Street and Dr. Dawson.”

 

“Yes, Lady Morcar.” Basil bowed. I followed suit, stunned by the unexpected use of our names (I hadn’t thought she even knew mine); the haughty Countess was noble in every sense of that word. “You honour me with a great gift this Animas Eve, for nothing pleases me more than a challenge, and an injustice to right.”

 

The Countess honked once in a tone of laughter. “You are bold, Basil of Baker Street! And clever, and fierce as a goose even against a much larger opponent. And you, Dr. Dawson, showed no small courage in coming close to my bill. From this day, both of you are friends of this estate, and shall no longer be called ‘mice’ when we speak of you.”

 

I bowed again with Basil, hiding my grin at this impressive honourific.

 

The Countess turned toward her farm, stretching out her wings again – limbering them from their bound, cramped position, I realised, so that she could fly home. “Sir Herbert, you may return our two friends to London.”

 

“My Lady.” Sir Herbert bent his neck.

 

Basil and I were glad to climb aboard, for full dark had fallen though it was not yet five. Reassuring both of us that he was quite able to travel in such conditions, the gander took off from the edge of the field, heading back to the center of the dear old city.

 

Again the flight was icy-cold, and now it was too dark to see scenery. But here and there, we saw the bright lights of the humans’ celebrations, punctuated with an occasional flicker from trees as birds and squirrels held their own holiday revels. I smiled as we travelled close to a raucous lantern-lit dance-party a flock of gulls held on a roof-top, remembering a previous client of ours.

 

Baker Street, with its bustle and cobbles and mix of every kind of human and animal at the very center of London, was a sea of lights. Human carolers near the park entrance serenaded people walking past.

 

“Thank you both,” Sir Herbert said fervently as he let us off at our straw-topped doorway (of course Mrs. Judson would not forget that happy token of the day). “We could not have found Her Ladyship so quickly ourselves – and that blackguard could have killed her. Again, I apologise for calling you away from your celebration.”

 

“For some of us, Sir Herbert, work is meat and drink,” Basil reassured him. “Your own Animas day would have been a grim one indeed if the Countess had remained in James’ keeping.”

 

“At any rate, all that dashing about and fighting has given me a monstrous appetite for the Animas dinner waiting for us within,” I added, and Basil burst out laughing in agreement. “No doubt my friend feels the same. Blessings of the season, sir. Now go, you’ll miss your own celebration.”

The gander was in the air before Basil had finished his laugh. (A wise fowl not to linger too close to so many humans on _Christmas_ Eve.)

 

I turned up the gas as we walked in. Our rooms were now warm and well-lit, festooned with evergreen that scented the air; a banked fire glowed, throwing more heat than light from its coals. Our supper was covered and warming on the hob – Mrs. Judson knew our work habits and the odd dining hours they often necessitated, even on a holiday, and had provided her usual solution before heading off to spend the next two nights at her sister’s. Basil carved the cheese-onion pie and distributed the roasted vegetables as I opened the bottle of Wainwright port. The only holiday greeting we needed to share was a clink of our glasses before we fell upon supper, Basil clearly as famished as I was.

 

“That cockerel’s fate still lingers in my thoughts, Basil.” I set down my napkin and reached for the bottle. “It doesn’t sit right with me that James was freed, even if I had no wish to watch the geese execute him.”

 

“And I still maintain that he was helped by an outsider, David.” Basil held out his glass for his own refill. His teeth were clenched, a little. “Despite what James said – and he could have been telling selective truth since he was probably a terrible liar – I am sure that one particular criminal was involved. James was a thread that could lead me to him, and now it is snapped; I am back where I started.” He smiled a little. “But you needn’t worry yourself about James being at liberty, old man. That was no act of mercy by Her Ladyship. He’s a farm fowl, not a wild bird; he was wounded, practically naked, and reeked of blood. He was heading away from safety into a winter wood at nightfall, full of beasts that would welcome a fresh cockerel to their holiday table. The question isn’t _if_ he was eaten, but _who_ wound up eating him.”

 

I shuddered. “You’re likely right.”

 

Scuffling sounds and familiar voices at the door lightened the mood. Basil and I smiled at each other as the carolers – Jennie Tilson and some of the other Baker Street Whiskers who ran errands for us – began a song in their charming Cockney-rat accents.

 

Basil stood. “For now, let us be merry and put such thoughts away, Doctor. I do believe we have enough remaining cheese-pie and a good store of biscuits for our visitors. See to the door.” He headed into another corner of the room as I let in the cold and the tune together.

 

I’d thought Basil gone to fetch the biscuit-tin or to poke up the fire to mull cider, but the sweet strains of his violin joining the youngsters’ voices pierced my heart. Basil joined us at the door; I watched and listened and let the peace of this moment fill me as the young rats sang and Basil played:

 

_“And then they heard the angels tell,_

_‘Who were the first to cry NOWELL?_

_Animals all, as it befell,_

_In the stable where they did dwell!_

_Joy shall be theirs in the morning!’”_

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the LJ comm Watson's Woes December 2015 WAdvent Calender, for December 25. A Christmas adventure as well as a Great Mouse Detective version of “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.” 
> 
> The passage of song at the very end is a stanza of a poem written by Kenneth Grahame that appears in _Wind in the Willows_.
> 
> Seasonal Felicitations to all on AO3.


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